


Seven flowers

by edvic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Grief/Mourning, Immortality, Language of Flowers, M/M, Soulmates, Strangers to Lovers, hint of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 20:56:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20663654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edvic/pseuds/edvic
Summary: After his parents' death, Harry tries to live on somehow, taking over the small flower shop. One day, a new customer asks for golden chrysanthemums.





	Seven flowers

**Author's Note:**

> My small contribution to this month's challenge @ tomarry discord. Enjoy!

The new customer is buying chrysanthemums every other day and Harry has to wonder. Can anyone be attending so many funerals a week? If the joke wasn't a bit gruesome, he'd ask the mysterious man - somewhere halfway through his twenties, it seems - but Harry knows better. Asking would be unprofessional and he’s known for his discretion.

He had sold bouquets for both wives and mistresses.

So he sits in the old shop with walls painted white last summer, thinking about funerals and the chrysanthemums he put on his parents’ grave and decides that maybe the man is an undertaker, because that’d make sense. He thought he knew everyone in the small town, but he could be wrong. He has no one to ask now that his parents are gone.

"I'll have golden today," the man says on Monday morning, his hair still somewhat messy from sleep. There’s something endearing about the view and Harry tries no to let his thoughts wander. He tells himself he’s not ready yet. That he will never be perhaps. 

But the man smiles and Harry smiles back. His heart skips a beat.

* * *

He notices the single stalk of rue the moment the mysterious customer enters the shop. Peeking from the pocket of his jacket, it looks nearly ridiculous, in contrast with his ever black clothes. Maybe the man is in mourning himself, Harry thinks. Maybe the flowers are for someone he knew. There are so many possibilities.

“I’d prefer red today,” the stranger - who seems more like a friend with each passing week - says with an almost apologetic smile the moment Harry reaches for the golden chrysanthemums. “If you have any,” he adds after a moment of hesitation.

Harry thinks there’s something boyish about him and that he looks out of place too. A stranger stuck in the sleepy town by mistake or some odd accident.

If he’s a stranger though, Harry thinks, why does he seem so familiar.

Their hands brush when Harry hands the bouquet over the counter. He can't help shivering. The man’s hands are unnaturally cold.

* * *

Harry notices it somewhere around December, the subtle cornflower print on the man’s tie. It looks old-fashioned, but suits him, Harry decides as his gaze lingers on the soft crook of his customer’s neck. It’s sickly white, the bit he can see, like the skin of his parents when he’s seen them for the last time, but Harry pushes the thought away. Instead, he thinks about the cornflower print again and how it’s harder every day, pretending that he has placed his heart in a box somewhere no one can touch it.

“It’s Tom,” the man says one day, his eyes avoiding Harry’s. “My name. Not that you need it… I thought you may be wondering.”

Something like hope flickers in Tom’s eyes when he finally lifts his gaze. 

“Harry,” he smiles, brushing his hand over Tom's. “You will need mine.”

* * *

He’s realized some time ago. It wasn’t hard to notice his unexpected lover had no heartbeat. His kisses were sheer passion and want and hunger, yet he had never shed a single drop of sweat. When Harry was trying to catch a breath, Tom lied by his side unbaffled, putting yellow marigolds in his hair forming a bizarre crown.

They kiss in the back of the shop in winter and then in Harry’s garden in spring. In the park near the rose alley when the summer sun is setting and then under apple trees in September. Harry smiles a lot more and he paints the front of his shop sky blue. Tom keeps wearing black. 

They never talk about it - Tom has to know Harry knows, but never comments on it, leaving him with endless questions that all have the same answer: whatever Tom is, Harry has no intention of letting him go.

* * *

Spring is Harry’s favourite - the bellflowers in the park are coming back to life and he feels oddly intact with them, as if someone - Tom - woke him up from winter sleep. Tom with his black clothes and hands so cold Harry is sure he could cure fever with his touch.

What was casual between them turned into intimate and some days Harry has to wonder where are they heading. They’re sharing the flat above Harry’s shop and they get a new bed. One day, Tom brings home a cat. Tom makes Harry coffee in the morning and Harry makes Tom tea in the evening. They go on walks. Tom reads books in languages Harry doesn’t understand. Harry plays guitar again. Tom says he likes Harry’s voice.

“What do you want from me?” He whispers, kissing Tom’s hair, the way Tom likes so much. It’s Sunday and they’re sitting on the sunny balcony.

Instead of an answer, he feels Tom’s hands on him, holding him close.

* * *

“Do you regret it?” Tom asks suddenly one summer day, when they are both too lazy to get out of bed.

Harry has to look a bit puzzled, because Tom asks once again: “Do you regret meeting me?”

The question rolls off his tongue so easily Harry wants to know how many times he had to ask it before. Endless, he guesses, judging by the way Tom’s fingers fumble the fabric of the saffron-printed bedding. He's probably trying to distract himself.

He thinks about the first time he saw Tom and the chrysanthemums. He still doesn’t know why Tom needed so many. Then he thinks about the winter that followed and the sky blue paint all over his fingers. He thinks about his heart in a box and how Tom put his back in his body.

“I could never regret it,” Harry says in the end, feeling the weight of his words.

* * *

Orange blossom. Harry likes the way it looks in his buttonhole, white against the dark fabric of his suit. He can’t recall the last time he felt so vulnerable; arranging the flowers makes him a bit less anxious.

He's sure there are people in the hall - his friend who moved away years ago and Luna, the girl he used to work with - but Harry can't really see them.

His heart is beating fast. For the two of them, he thinks. His legs feel unsteady. But then he sees Tom and smiles. It all feels familiar for some reason. As if he’s already been here before. As if he’s dreamed it.

“My life is your life,” he recognizes his own trembling voice. 

“As long as we both shall live,” Tom smiles at him.

The weight on his finger feels strange, but not unwelcome.

**Author's Note:**

> Who do you think the flowers were for?


End file.
